The Weight of Living
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: Dean is haunted by the things he's done. He's not the only one. (For SPN Summergen 2016)


**A/n:** Wrriten for SPN Summergen 2016 - Swordy offered up a number of lovely prompts to choose from, but there was one in particular I could not resist. ;D And big props to my wonderful beta, Hope at _The Beta Branch_!

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 **The Weight of Living**

It wasn't the nicest pub, but it was the closest, so it suited Dean just fine. He barged in the heavy wooden door and wove his way past a group of co-eds high-fiving and laughing. Dean planted himself at the end of bar and ordered two double whiskeys.

The bartender gave him a Look.

"Just keep 'em coming, pal," Dean sighed. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyebrow as if he could smooth away the headache brewing there.

He was calmer now, away from the bunker. His heart had stopped pounding with anger, though the fight with Sam still rang in his ears.

How Dean needed to stop beating himself up about the things he did while he was a demon. How Dean needed to let Sam find a way to get the Mark of Cain off Dean's arm. How Dean needed to accept things and just _be okay_.

Dean threw back his first whiskey and relished the burn as it slid down his throat. It was driving him crazy that Sam kept promising they'd find a solution to this whole thing. That someday the Mark would be gone and everything would be great again – as great as it ever was, given their lives as hunters.

But there was no way. Dean knew – _knew_ , with a deep-seated certainty that he could not explain or convey to his brother, no matter how hard he tried. This was it for him. The Mark would be the end of him. With any luck, the Mark or some hell beastie would kill him before he became a demon again (or worse).

 _You just have to have a little hope, Dean!_ Sam had shouted as Dean stormed out the bunker, fed up with the old, circular argument.

 _Can't find hope if there is none_ , he'd barked back, slamming the door behind him.

Dean wrapped his fingers around his second glass of whiskey, letting the noise of the bar wash over him. It was good to be alone, here. Alone and anonymous. Just another person in the crowd. Would've been nicer if he could be away from the Mark, too. Away from having to think about it for five minutes, but there was no chance of that.

A man wearing a black baseball cap settled a couple stools away. He murmured his order to the bartender and tugged off his coat. Dean's eyes idly flicked over at the movement. The long sleeve shirt underneath the man's jacket had ridden up, showing a strange, silver prosthetic arm.

Dean blinked in surprise, never having seen anything like it before. Was the dude's entire arm actually _metal?_

The guy hastily straightened out his shirt and readjusted the glove on his hand, ensuring all the silver was covered. Then he caught Dean looking.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to stare…" Dean waved his hand in the man's direction. He'd been doing just that. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry."

The stranger snorted. "I'm used to it." His voice was hard and bitter. The bartender set down several shots of vodka. The man swallowed two in quick succession.

Dean's uncomfortableness didn't ease. "Sorry," he said again, wishing he could come up with something better. He forced his gaze away and onto his whiskey.

The pub was moderately crowded, full of chatter and punctuated by clanking sounds. The music was mostly drowned out, though sometimes Dean could hear snatches of classic 80's tunes and recent pop hits filtering between the random laughter and occasional shouts. The ambient noise was oddly comforting. After a little while, as he sipped on his second then third whiskey, he forgot about the guy a few seats down. Instead, his thoughts returned inevitably to Sam and the Mark and the whole… demon thing.

It was still a horrible nightmare he could barely believe had happened. He remembered every moment of it – every throat he sliced, every heinous act, every foul, dark thought. Worst of all, he remembered the expression on Sam's face – when Sam found him, when Sam doused him with holy water, when Sam ran from him in the bunker. When Sam cured him.

More than the crap he'd done as a demon, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Sam had _looked_ at him.

But Sam forgave him. Promised it was okay. _Kept_ forgiving him. Kept fighting for him and trying so damn hard to heal him.

Dean hunched his shoulders and pressed his eyes to his palms, as if he could blot out the memories.

"You okay, pal?" a voice murmured on his right.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and let them drop to the sticky bar. The guy with the silver arm was eyeing him, but not in a concerned way. More of a _I know exactly how shitty you feel_ kind of way. The way someone at rock bottom can recognize someone else in the very same place.

"No." The word fell out of Dean's lips before he could think about it.

He considered backpedaling and lying and going with his standard "Never mind, I'm fine, pass the beer" line. He considered just paying and leaving and finding another bar. He didn't consider telling the truth to a random stranger with a bizarre prosthetic.

The other man smirked in that same, knowing way. "Me neither." His attention wandered back to the muted Patriots game on the nearest TV.

Looking back, Dean couldn't say what made him do it. Maybe some part of him needed company when he was determined to be alone. Maybe he, too, recognized a similar, aching pain coloring the stranger's sad blue eyes. Maybe it was because this man was entirely unconnected to Dean's world and life and past and situation. Maybe it was because he was on his third (fourth?) whiskey. Whatever the reason, Dean moved one stool over and held out his hand.

"Dean," he said.

The other man glanced away from the TV in surprise, but took Dean's offered hand. "Ja– Bucky."

 _Fake name_ , thought Dean, amused. _Bad one._ As someone who daily gave out fake names for a variety of reasons, however, it didn't phase him for a second.

"So, what's your deal?" the hunter asked bluntly. "What's making you down six glasses of booze and a few shots?"

"You keeping track?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm on about number four and no shots, and you got here after me. I'm impressed."

"I have a really intense metabolism," Bucky replied, his lips tilting into a half-smile. "What's your excuse?"

Dean chuckled, though he wasn't sure if the guy was joking or not. "Me, I just like getting drunk." He waited a beat, swirling his whiskey. "Honestly? I did some… I've done some bad things in my life, recently. Hurt people. Really hurt the people I care… my brother. I hurt him bad."

His gut constricted, thinking about chasing Sam with the axe. About the things he'd said while Sam desperately tried to cure him. All the things he could _not stop_ running over and over in his mind.

Bucky watched Dean and understanding washed over his features as Dean continued.

"And I… he forgave me. He flat-out, no questions asked, forgave me. I mean, there _were_ questions, but I…" Dean shook his head, fumbling for words. He set his drink down and his hand absently pressed over the Mark of Cain, still burned into his arm, under two layers of flannel. "He believes we can fix what I've done. He believes it, so damn much, and I… I don't… I can't…"

He trailed off and clenched his jaw. This was stupid. Why the hell was he trying to explain this to some random dude in a bar? To anyone? No one could possibly get what had happened, what he'd been through, let alone, what, give him advice?

His hand was halfway to his wallet, intending to pay and hightail it, when the other guy spoke.

"I, uh," Bucky piped up, interrupting Dean's thoughts. "My best friend is the same way. My… situation kinda sounds way too much like yours." He chuckled and shot Dean a relieved sort of smile. "I did some things. And he won't give up on me. I know I'm not worth saving – I can't be. Not after…"

A waitress dropped a glass. Bucky jumped, glancing over his shoulder sharply. His eyes flickered around the room. Dean knew that look. Haunted. Paranoid. Unable to fit in the world. His heart went out to the guy – they were more similar than either of them knew, it seemed.

Sam would probably know what to say to comfort Bucky. He was better at this than Dean. Dean, however, was at a loss. There was nothing anyone could say to _him_ to make him feel better, so what was he supposed to say to Bucky?

"Anyways," Bucky mumbled, eyes lingering on his drink again.

"Sounds like your friend and my brother should hang out," Dean mused. "They can talk about how damaged we are and how they're gonna save us." He lifted his glass towards Bucky. "Cheers to being completely unredeemable screw-ups."

Bucky clinked his glass against Dean's and the pair of them downed the last of their booze. Dean ordered them another round.

"So, your friend," he said. "He got this habit of seeing the silver lining all the time?"

"Oh yeah," Bucky nodded.

"And worse, _believing_ in it? Like, full-tilt, there not only is a pretty rainbow in the sky, but a shiny stack of gold at the end of it?"

"To an annoying degree," Bucky said with a laugh. They _cheers_ ed over that next then fell quiet, contemplative. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing," he added.

Dean wanted to argue that. He was… well, he was doomed. He unconsciously scratched at the Mark again. As far as he was concerned, he'd already gone too far to be forgiven on a lot of things over the years. The demon crap was the biggest and baddest of them all. He didn't deserve for it to be okay, he didn't deserve to have the Mark removed and to go on living.

But what was so bad about Sam grasping Dean's shoulder, promising that it could, and would, be okay? That they would get through this together? What was so wrong about Sam being determined and brimming with hope and love for his brother, even if Dean wasn't for himself?

"Maybe not," Dean agreed.

Something in his chest loosened and lifted – some weight he hadn't noticed he'd been carrying. The chances that it really would be all right someday were freaking slim. But maybe a little hope wasn't a totally horrible thing, after all. Hell, maybe there would be some insane, impossible last minute miracle that would get them through this.

 _Wouldn't be the first time_ , he thought with a small smile.

Bucky tossed back his latest drink and let out a sigh. "I better go. It's been nice talking to you, Dean." He dug out some crumpled bills from his pocket and laid them onto the bar beside his empty glass.

"Hey, you too," said Dean, shaking Bucky's hand. "Look, maybe… cut your friend some slack. Maybe he's not wrong about you. Whatever you've done… maybe, with him, it can really be… well, not okay, but… you know?"

Bucky's lips quirked into another sad half-smile. "Yeah." He looked unconvinced and adjusted his ballcap. "But hey – same to you. And your brother." He shrugged. "Maybe if we've got people like him and my friend, we'll make it."

"Damn, I hope so," Dean replied. _Hope._ He swallowed down the lump of emotion threatening to cut him off.

Bucky offered him a nod and a wave, then wove his way out of the crowded pub.

Dean swiveled to face his drink. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

"Hey, Sammy. Yeah. Just wanted to let you know I'll be home soon."

 **-end-**


End file.
